Ticking Off The Days
by Magnus McKay
Summary: From Zero Hour, the moment of Sherlock Holmes's death, the ever faithful John Watson keeps on counting down the days its been since he saw his best friend die. Little does he know that Sherlock is doing so too, always counting them... when will the counting stop? When will they finally stop? Sherlock/John
1. 1 Zero Hour

I feel my throat contract painfully as I leave my note for John.

My only friend in this entire world.

That is what people do they not? Leave a note when they die.

Simple words do not seem enough. But I have to lie to him too. Tell him I am a fraud. That the past two years he has known me has been a lie.

It breaks my heart.

A heart that I did not realise that I had is breaking right now, splitting in two and shattering into a million broken pieces that fall into the pit of my stomach like the shards of Moriarty's skull had fallen to the ground.

I can see John from my vantage point, looking up at me in complete and utter horror. He is panicking, which makes this twice as hard to do. I can hear him talking to me down the phone, his voice sounding tinny through the poorly constructed speaker pressed to my ear. The words he speaks to me do not matter, just the sound of his voice. I memorize it, fold it into me and store it to never be forgotten.

I thank him for everything, for the first time in my life I mean it.

"Goodbye, John."

Then I fall.

* * *

Sherlock is upset, I can hear it as I jump out of the cab and begin to run. He's making no sense whatsoever, which makes this all the more terrifying. I'm confused and scared.

Sherlock Holmes just doesn't get upset. Something must be desperately wrong. He tells me to look up and my eyes grow large with shock. He's stood right on the edge of the building, coat flapping in the wind.

I beg him.

Don't do this. Please. You can't do this to me.

He still falls.

I go numb, my heart seems to stop in my chest and everything happens in slow motion. I freeze, something hits me and I fall to the ground. I'm not sure what it was but I'm so numb I didn't feel it. I'm on my feet again, moving forward through the crowd, pushing my way forward.

The sight that greats me is horrific. My Sherlock, covered in blood.

* * *

I can hear John telling people to get out of his way in a terrified voice. I feel his fingers lift my arm, check my pulse. He won't find one. I have pre-empted him, placing a squash ball under my arm to dull the heartbeat in my wrist.

I can see his face now. He is crying. I do not like it. I want it all to stop, I want to sit up and hold him even though I abhor physical affection. Tell him this was all a trick to save his life.

But I cannot. Its too dangerous.

I am lifted from the ground and I feel John's warm fingers slip from my skin for the last time as I'm pushed away from him on a hospital gurney. I can still feel his fingers on my skin. Like its branded me with its heat.

I wait until I have been brought to Molly before I move. She has been waiting for me like my own personal Angel of Death. She looks at me softly like she always does, but there is something more behind it this time. Sorrow.

I sit up slowly, rising like a monster coming back to life. My limbs feel heavy as does my heart which is threatening to drop right out of my chest in into my toes. I know its an impossibility but I never knew that carrying this most vital of organs could be such a burden.

I cover my eyes, fingers becoming sticky with my own blood that I had drawn earlier for this exact purpose, to fool the world.

I do not want Molly to see me cry.

She turns her back.

My tears feel hot against my skin.

I cry for a few minutes, feeling vulnerable and weak for a moment, then there are soft warm arms around me. Molly holds me, unable to hear me go through this alone. If I could find my words I would thank her, but I am lost in my own misery.

My mind ghosts over a memory which makes a tight knot appear in my stomach.

I am a machine.

I am heartless.

I am cold.

Even the heartless weep for the one they miss. And I already miss John. I can only imagine how hard this is for him.


	2. 2 Day One

I sit in the back of the ambulance, lurid orange blanket around my shoulders. It brutally reminds me of the night I saved Sherlock's life and we became flatmates.

Why couldn't I do that today?

Why couldn't I save him?

The paramedics keep fussing over me.

I keep pushing them away.

I rub the fingers of my right hand with my thumb, still able to feel Sherlock's skin under the groves of my fingerprints even though I touched him over half an hour ago.

I feel sick to my very stomach and the only way I can counteract it is to stare at the ground in silence. But that silence is broken by the soft sound of Greg Lestrade's voice. He crouches to talk to me so he can look into my eyes. He asks me something. I don't comprehend what he says. I'm lost. My lips part to answer him but nothing comes out.

"Sorry."

It's a simple word, but as Greg speaks it my heart sinks like a stone crashing right through me. I keel forward, landing hard on my hands and knees. I don't feel it right now, but the bruises will last a good week. I sob hard, my hands fists.

Strong hands lift me, sliding under the crooks of my arms. Lifting me back into the ambulance. I sob harder, my limbs weak. Greg doesn't know what to do so he just keeps a hold of me so I won't fall again. He sniffs himself and I see a few drops fall onto the lapel of his coat through my own clouded vision.

It truly hits me that Sherlock is dead.

* * *

Does emotional pain leave a scar like a blade might? A scar under the flesh maybe? How can anyone bare to carry these scars around with them when they hurt so very much, sorrow and hurt bleeding through them?

I am drowning in it.

Mycroft is normally abrasive and hard to be around, the urge to punch him rising within the first half an hour of his arrival. But at the moment he is oddly kind, making me tea like we are children again and offering me soft words.

I take neither from him.

I do not need sympathy and I definitely do not need him. The only person I need is across London right now mourning my death on his own. I should not think these poisonous thoughts. They hurt far too much.

I sit in the wing backed chair by the fire, my fingers steepled as they normally are. For a moment I want to beg to all the deities that I do not believe in past, present and future that this has all been one horrible dream. That I will wake up and go into the lounge to find John reading his newspaper, grumbling at what the government has done to piss him off today while I sit at my microscope and ignore him.

But I do not ignore him. I listen to his every sound. I catalogue it. Store it away as if its tiny little nuggets of gold.

I have been doing it for weeks.

Just in case.

Now I cannot open that file.

I cannot bare to think of him.

It hurts too much and tears rise in my eyes once more as I remember that little annoyed sigh of his. I wonder how many of those he will produce today. And I will not be there to hear any of them.

Mycroft sees them.

Sighs.

Makes that annoying sucking sound with his tongue over his teeth that he has made 39 times in the last hour.

I try to pass off the moisture building in the corner of my eyes as just as them watering from the heat of the fire. He does not believe me. He has every right not to.

"You love him."

The words feel like ice, slipping down my spine and chilling my very core making me shiver violently. All heat from the room is purged and I am this freezing cold thing. This nothing. Nothing without John.

"Yes."

The word seems alien coming from my mouth. It is the first thing I have said since I said goodbye to John. It echoes round us, hanging heavy in the silence of the room.

Mycroft's eyebrows rise in shock. He stares at me and I stare back, unblinkingly. Slowly he closes his eyes and sighs. Then he moves forward and presses his lips against my forehead like he used to do when I was small, like I had fallen over.

Then he is gone, leaving me to my heartbreak and misery.


	3. 3 Day Seven

The funeral is a sombre occasion.

Not many turn out for it. Just the expected crowd.

Mrs Hudson is a mess. For her she has basically lost a son. Nobody should have to bury a son. I try to comfort her as best I can, but its hard and the words stick in my throat. She just nods her understanding.

Molly is strangely serene, her tears demurely held back. She has an arm around Greg who is pale faced and hollow eyed. He hasn't slept in a while, you can tell. I hear that he's been sleeping on Molly's sofa. His marriage is over and he's just lost a detective. But he has someone to comfort him.

I have no one.

Mycroft is here but he keeps his distance, narrow eyes watching the proceedings. As soon as the casket is in the ground, he turns away. I can't help thinking that he was right. That caring isn't an advantage.

I look up into the blue sky. Not a cloud in it.

It was a beautiful day.

That wasn't fair. How can it be so beautiful today? How can the birds sing so cheerfully? How can the world keep on turning without my Sherlock?

I return to the gravestone later with Mrs Hudson. The grave has been filled and the grass replaced over it as if nothing has happened. As if Sherlock doesn't lie beneath it alone once more.

Mrs Hudson walks away crying. I want to join her but I feel rooted to the spot.

"You… you told me once… that you weren't a hero. Umm… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human… human being I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so… there."

It doesn't feel good enough. The words don't seem like enough for this wonderful man.

I walk forward and touch the tasteful black marble of his headstone. It feels cold under my fingertips. It still doesn't feel real.

"I was so alone… and I owe you so much."

I begin to walk away, emotion getting the better of me. But I can't go. Not yet. Something draws me back to gaze upon that marble again. I can see my own refection in it.

I look broken.

I am broken.

"But please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't be… dead."

I stumble over the word and swallow down a sob that is threatening to pass my lips. I take a second to compose myself but when I speak again my voice is weak and it sounds horribly whiny.

"Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this…"

I let out a sigh. Realise words are useless. Sherlock wouldn't have bloody listened anyway. I sob for a moment and cover my eyes. I dry the tears away with the palm of my hand, calming myself.

I stand straight, head held high then give his grave a curt military nod. I turn neatly and walk away. Walk away from the man I had come to respect, had become fiercely loyal to. Had loved with my entire being though he did but know it.

The weight of the world falls onto my shoulders.

* * *

Mycroft makes me sit in the car while the funeral is in progress. I fidget in my annoyance. He seems to think that I might blow my cover if I turn up. Too many prying eyes he says. I understand him perfectly but that does not mean that it makes it any easier.

I can see my grave site from here. I can see my little rabble of mourners. I hear Greg has been staying at Molly's. I always had a feeling she liked him more than she was letting on.

John seems to shine by my grave in the now watery sunlight as cloud rolls over the sky. I feel my heart tighten as if a band of iron has been fastened about it.

The crowd disperses and John is alone by my grave. Mycroft warns me, but I am out of the car before he can talk me out of it.

My feet feel heavy as I keep myself at a distance from John.

I stand and watch him, my hands in my pockets. Then he begins to talk, broken words falling from his mouth and I will him to stop.

I cannot take this.

I cannot hear him cry and beg me to still be alive.

But I cannot move, as if I have set down roots to hold me to the ground.

I break as John walks away. I too turn my back, but I will never forget John. Never. I will not let myself.

One day I will return to him.

I will return to the only person I ever loved.


	4. 4 Day Thirty Seven

Its been a whole month since Sherlock died and I am at a train station in Hampshire. I returned home to my mother shortly after the funeral and now I'm on the way back to London.

I board the train and sigh as I settle into my seat, my leg aching horribly.

The limp is back.

Its been back for weeks now.

I look out of the window, and I swear for a moment I see a familiarly curly haired man stood at the platform. My eyes widen and as the train pulls away, I try to get a better look, standing and walking along the train, moving faster as it picks up speed.

I see flashes of the man but by the time I can clearly see the platform he's gone and I'm on my knee's battling with myself not to have a break down in front of a train full of staring strangers.

This is the second time I've done this.

The second time I think I've seen Sherlock.

But I haven't. He's dead.

Dead.

With the help of a young man, I get on my feet and return to my own seat, my leg aching more than ever.

I hate this.

I hate being alone.

The last time I was on a train, I was with Sherlock and we were on the way to Dorset to solve the mystery of the great Hound that had stalked poor Henry Knight for all those years.

It's a painful memory.

That was the first time I'd ever really seen Sherlock feel and he was completely terrified, shaking and God I wanted to hold him. Tell him everything was going to be okay. What I would pay for him to be here to do that now.

I sigh and drink from my hip flask.

Oh. I do that now.

Drink.

It dulls the pain and I can understand why Harry turned to it. I can see the path I'm going down. I know its bad for me, that it might kill me.

Good.

Because I've got nothing left.

I sink back in my seat and watch England fly by.

* * *

I should not be here.

I should not be watching John, but I am drawn to him like a moth is to the flare of a light bulb.

John's limp is back, much worse than before and it pains me to watch him struggle onto the train with his small suitcase, no one around him even polite enough to offer the small man a hand.

I want to help him, but I cannot.

Not yet, it is too soon.

There is still much to do.

I sigh and put my hands in the pockets of my jeans, watching as the train pulls away. John spots me and my insides run cold as he gets to his feet and races down the train to catch sight of me. I panic and rush from the platform before he can catch a glimpse of me.

This is the second time he has nearly seen me.

The first time it happened, John had been returning from Tesco, undoubtedly after yet another argument with the self service check outs. He had that oh so familiar look of annoyance on his face that only came from shouting at an inanimate object. I quickly hopped onto a bus and he spotted me out of the corner of his eye.

Four blocks.

That is how far John raced after the bus, his shopping bags lying on the pavement three streets over. My heart broke as the bus pulled away, whisking me down a bus lane into the outskirts of London and away from my poor John.

I am outside the station now and there is a black car waiting for me to take me to my next location.

I feel sick and my hands tremble even though they are clamped into tight fists in my pocket. I screw my face up and sniff as I fold myself into the back of the car, tears stinging my face.

God knows when I will see John again.


	5. 5 Day Thirty Eight

The flat seems cold now and there's a sort of musty smell to it from not being lived in for such a long time. Maybe it was Sherlock's presence that made it warm, but its freezing now. Like his life and his friendship had warmed the place.

I feel like I've been away too long and I take a small tour around the flat.

My eyes fall on the microscope on the table and l rest my hand on it. A painful feeling settles over my heart as I circle the lenses with my fingers where I would see Sherlock's brilliant iridescent eyes illuminated on a daily basis.

I touch it because I think I might be able to feel something of him from it.

There's nothing though.

Even the smell of Sherlock is hard to find.

Chemicals. Violets. Mint toothpaste. Vanilla. Sherlock. Its gone.

Its nowhere to be found until I come to Sherlock's bedroom door. I press my hand to the bronze knob and close my eyes, wishing this had all been a dream and I'll open the door to find Sherlock lying there, not sleeping… just staring at the ceiling.

It is empty though.

And it will remain so.

The bed is still ruffled from the day Sherlock died and I frown deeply at it as if it had been personally offensive towards me.

I don't know what possesses me…

I rest a hand on Sherlock's pillow, still slightly indented from his head.

The next thing I know I'm under the covers, breathing in what's left of Sherlock and just sobbing. I haven't cried over Sherlock's death in a long time, but the tears just won't stop coming.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes I am waking up in Sherlock's bed in the harsh light of day. For a long time I just lie here, staring at the window.

Morning.

Hateful.

A smile twitches at my lips as I realise that was something that Sherlock would say. Something he usually associated with something he particularly disliked, like a lull between cases or particularly cheerful sounding birds.

I know now that I won't be sleeping anywhere else.

* * *

My bed is as cold as my heart.

Strictly, it is not my bed.

It is a bed in a draughty hotel that I cannot remember the name of, or the number on my door. All I know is that the sheets are over-starched and my pillows smell faintly of the last person who rested their head here.

It is in these quiet moments that I think of John.

My wonderful John, what are you doing right now? Are you lying in bed as I am, thinking of our time together? Imagining if this were all a dream and we were together?

Because I am.

I imagine what it would be like to share a bed, I have never done that before.

I wish I had some point of reference as I clutch a pillow to my chest in approximation of holding John. Its proportions are too small, but it holds some comfort, even if it does not hold be back.

Of course, I should be sleeping at this time of the morning, but why break the habit of a lifetime.

Sunlight.

Hateful.

I smile sadly. My John would chuckle whenever I complained about the sun, be it too bright or too hot. He would just roll his eyes and go back to whatever it was he was doing with a laugh dying on his lips.

I miss him laughing at me, of all things.


End file.
